


The Fall of Miraak

by starspawnedwarlock



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 17:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14170281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starspawnedwarlock/pseuds/starspawnedwarlock
Summary: Worship, lord, serve: this was the life of the dragon priests. In the metheric era, long before the first incarnation of the Nerevarine, the plot of Jagar Tharn, or the Oblivion Crisis, there were dragons, and their servants; man.  The Dragons ruled with their divine birthright, and their priests imposed their will.Among the dozens of Dragon Priests, there was one who carved himself a niche in the memories of all dragons, even if history forgot him. His name, was Miraak. He stayed in their memories as the one Priest that defied their will, and the one priest who ruled over dragons. But he was not always the power hungry, arrogant, and cruel man. Once, he was a happy servant of the dragons, and saw no fault in their rule.But times change, as do men. And the power of the Dragonborn... that is not one to be taken lightly.





	The Fall of Miraak

Miraak could only watch as his onetime brother prepared to strike the final blow. The temple around them lay in ruins, pillars blasted to oblivion, trees burned or ripped from the ground, and boulders blown of the mountain were strewn about. Steel of heretic and worshipper clashed, Nordic blood staining the stone of the temple. The warriors were burned, frozen, cleaved in two, or devoured by dragons. The battle was fierce, and already the bodies of dragons littered the hillside, with yet more living dragons shouting their words of power above. For the first time, dragon fought dragon in bloody war, fire, ice and lightning rained down form the skies, the power ripping apart any unlucky enough to be caught in the blast. 

A bolt of lightning shot from the hand of Zahkriisos, and cut a swath of burnt flesh through the ranks of his attackers. Lightning swirled around him, lashing out at any who came close. A single warrior managed to reach him, raising his axe to attack, before Zahkriisos swung his staff, knocking him back, and following up with a burst of lightning. The Nord flew away, smoking. A great foot slammed down, crushing the corpse as it landed. The monstrous fish creature turned to look at the Dragon-Priest. With a roar, the creature ran forward. Zahkriisos changed his stance, raising his staff high above his head. 

As the creature reached him, Zahkriisos begun his attack. Swinging the staff once, twice, three times, each time a blast of lightning leaping from the staff to push the giant back. As the creature reeled, the priest prepared his final blow. Summoning all his power, he shouted.

STRUN, BAH QO 

A great flash of light came from the heavens, followed by a blindingly bright pillar of lightning, striking the Lurker, blowing it apart, and spraying its gore and blood across the hillside. Zahkriisos let out a heavy breath of exhaustion, as lightning coursed through his hands.

Ahzidal, his hands aflame, letting loose an anger fuelled scream, marched through the horde of fighters, balls of fire incinerating groups of warriors, indiscriminate of what side they were on. His mask shone brightly, reflecting the huge fires around him. Days into the fight, and still his pyromania hungered, screaming at him to light the world afire. A Nord stumbled out from a blaze, his voice no longer holding his screams. He stumbled forth, and fell to his knees before Ahzidal, pleading in his silent tongue to help. The priest felt the rage grow inside him, and pushed the Nord away. As the burning man tried to rise once again, Ahzidal shouted, pouring the teachings of the dragons into his voice.

YOL TOOR SHUL

The fiery wave shot forth, reducing the Nord to ash. With a mad gleam in his eyes, he walked back into the fray, the ground at his feet lighting, leaving a trail of ash and ruin.

Dukaan, a storm of ice around him, sat motionless amidst a field of frozen men. The frost formed patterns around him, and spikes of ice grew up from the snowy ground. Frost covered the skeleton of a dragon that lay beside him. The daedra that fought for the traitor, they too could not resist the cold; none could. Frost atronachs appeared in swirls of frost, marching out to fight any foe they could find. His breathing was heavy, his eyes unfocused, as the battle raged outside his freezing sphere of safety. His arms twitched as a frost dragon landed within the sphere. Its intentions were clear. It was allied with the traitors. As the dragon took a breath in, preparing to shout, Dukaan had a moment of clarity.

FO KRAH DIIN 

With that shout, the full power of the cold was released. The dragon reared back, stunned by the sheer power that a mortal could use the voice with. The wave of frost flowed over its scales, freezing the dragon. As the great ice sculpture in front of him solidified, Dukaan began to twitch more, ice spikes growing from his robes.

A horde of Nords, clutching their swords and axes, charged forwards, ready to take down the colossal beast in front of them. The dragon screeched, breathing a spray of fire at the approaching warriors. Just as they prepared to meet a fiery trip to Sovngarde, a single Nord wizard sprinted forward, raising a ward to absorb the fire. The warriors nodded thanks to the wizard as they prepared themselves for the battle. Spent, the dragon ceased spewing flames. The Nords charged once again, swinging their weapons at the dragon.

With a lash of a tail, a Nord flew away, his bones shattered. A bite from the dragon slew another, crushing his torso in its maw. The dragon dropped its victim as a blade was thrust into its underside, screeching. It looked down to see a Nordic champion, wielding a great ebony blade. The dragon pulled away, taking to the air to escape the Nordic master of combat. Four Nordic worshippers rushed to keep the ebony wielder occupied. With five swift strikes, they were dead. The dragon swooped down, ready to unleash fiery death from the sky. 

JOOR ZAH FRUL

The dragon roared as it was forced to land, the Nord using the Thu’um in its own dark manner. As it fell, and skidded along the ground, the Nord pulled back his blade, ready to deal a death blow to the dragon. The dragon opened its mouth to screech as the Nord swung his sword, the blade cleaving straight into its maw, as its momentum carried it forward, letting the blade go deeper. As the dragon coughed and contorted with its maw and neck lacerated in such a way, the Nord raised his blade for the final time in the dragons life, and swung down, severing its head from its body. And so a heretic beat its god.

A single dragon priest stood in a swarm of its enemies, swirling, hurling balls of fire, spikes of ice, and bolts of lightning. A warrior fell before him, his arm frozen. Another collapsed, his entire body charred and hair burnt. An attacking Nord was hit by a fireball, and was slain as his torso was blasted apart. As the heretics closed around him, a great blaze erupted, cloaking him in fire. The Nords stumbled back, as an ethereal sword appeared in his hands. A stream of ice, followed by a sweeping blade, cut through the heretics. Limbs sailed through the air, accompanying the chorus of screams that rang across the battlefield. As another group of heretics charged down to accost him, he took drastic measures. Taking his staff from his back, he pulled it down with force onto his knee, sending cracks up the wood. A power began to force its way out of the staff, he lobbed it into the charging horde of Nords. 

The explosion of pure magic made the ground shake as it flowed across the battlefield. The Nords evaporated in the huge ball of light that appeared where the staff had landed. As the priest took a moment to behold the power, a Nord charge forward from behind him. Spinning around, the priest thrust the blade into the Nord’s chest, watching as he spluttered for breath. Another heretic roared as he swung his blade, biting deep into the dragon priest’s knees. He pulled it away as the priest fell onto his mangled knees, swaying for a moment, before a brute of a man swung his axe, lopping the priest’s head clean off.

An archer stood on the walls of the temple, letting arrows loose into the screaming mass. He had long abandoned the vanity of kill count, now only caring that he kept as many of his brothers alive as possible. Another servant of the dragons fell to his arrows, as he reached back into his quiver. The roar of a dragon reached his ears, this one directed in his direction. Looking up, he saw the serpentine beast streaking towards him. He pulled another arrow, and drew the string taut. There was no time for prayers, only firing. The arrow shot through the air, and with the luck of the archer, sank itself into the dragon’s eye. The beast screeched, as it blundered forward, bashing into the walls of the temple, sending the archer and debris flying. 

Miraak looked up at Vahlok, his right hand aflame, the left holding his bloodied sword. His robes were charred, frozen, and covered in blood. A burn covered the left side of his face. 

“Before I kill you, and end your rebellion, please tell me, Miraak: what madness caused you turn against the dragons?” Vahlok asked, breathing heavily, blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes were full of sadness as Miraak looked up to the faithful.

“Because, brother, only a fool stays under those he is greater than,” Miraak replied, his blade lying beside him, splattered with blood, both his and Vahlok’s. 

“Ambition, then?” Vahlok mused, looking down in sadness as the flame grew in both size and brightness. “Goodbye, brother…” He prepared to reduce the traitor to ash. But before he could, Miraak lashed out, lightning shooting from his outstretched arm to strike Vahlok, who stumbled back.

“Sahrotaar! Now!” Miraak screamed, leaping away as a serpentine dragon swooped down to attack Vahlok.

 

Miraak walked down the halls of his temple, hearing his footfalls echo throughout the huge stone fortress. The carvings of their dragon masters adorned every wall, along with engravings depicting the dragon priests leading worship. He could hear the lesser priests leading the worship, their calls and praisings ringing out. He could hear the explosions of fire, ice and lightning from the mage's quarters, the clashing of steel from the training rooms, and the hammering of smith’s hammer onto anvil. 

He could smell the scents of bread and meat, wafting from the kitchens, the blazing coals from the forges, the rather pungent smell from the stables, and the musty robes worn by passing priests. The temple was truly alive, after so long, and now the dragons will could be carried out in this corner of Skyrim. The ash from the red mountain enriched the soil, giving his people food, and livestock. There were, of course, dangers to living in the shadow of the mountain. Horrible creatures often arose from the ash, but they were often no match for the Nord warriors. The greatest threat was the damned giants; there were dozens of them. A single giant could take down a well armoured and well trained group of warriors. 

A pair of Nords passed, escorting a Snow Elven prisoner with them. Scars covered him pale face, and his left eye had been removed, with a large scar travelling over his eye socket. The elf did not struggle as he was half carried through the temple, already having resigned himself to his fate. Miraak sighed as they turned a corner. The Snow Elves had condemned themselves destroying Saarthal, and leaving Ahzidal alive. They created their worst enemy. Ahzidal had shown the Nords the secret of elven magic, and they used this to crush the elves. And he would have to meet Ahzidal soon.

The first destination on Miraak’s schedule, ensuring the temple was running smoothly, was the forges. A short walk from his main office, he was there in no time. The two great iron doors carved with dragon heads stood closed before him. The metal was warm through his gauntlets as he grasped the handles. The doors gave no creek as he opened them. A burly smith was swinging his hammer down on the anvil in front of him. The room was lit by naught but the glowing forge, one that turned the smith into a dark silhouette before him. Swords lined the walls, hanging from racks, crossed behind shields, along with axes and hammers, all ready to be used in war. Armour was mounted upon mannequins, or placed on shelves and tables, its dark steel shining with the dim light of the forge. 

The smith straightened up as Miraak approached, his adventuring instincts kicking in. The huge Nord turned, and his face split with a wide smile as he gaze locked on the dragon priest.  
“Ah, my Lord Miraak” the smith greeted him, bowing slightly. His long, thick, greying beard was filled with ash, and constantly let out an odour of smoke. His dirty blond hair was tied back, stained with the ash. He was heavily built, and his exposed arms were covered in burns, scars and tattoos. The most noticeable of all his features, however, was his eyes. They always seemed to shine with hope and happiness, and they always showed what he felt. On the rare occasion he was angry, his eyes could vent it, and he had even turned beasts of the wild with a stare.

“Hrofdir, there is no need for “Lords” here, we are all brothers in this new land, whether priest or smith, it matters not,” Miraak laughed under his mask, embracing his friend. Hrofdir set down his hammer to return the hug. 

“So, brother, is your new forge acceptable?” Miraak asked when they parted, turning to gaze at the glowing coals.

“Ah, yes Miraak, it is greater than any I have had the privilege of using. You have really achieved something… something great with this temple, you know?” Hrofdir answered, walking over to a large metal chest in the corner of the room. 

Miraak looked around the large forge room, letting out a happy sigh. “I am glad the dragon’s permitted our building here, even if it took years. And apparently they want to make sure it stays here. I didn’t tell you this valued and secretive information of the dragon cult’s ever important movements, but four more dragon priests are to make this island their home. They are to cross the land bridge soon, to visit their smaller temples and outposts. There is meeting later today.”

“And how do you think that shall go?” Hrofdir implored, sliding a large iron key into the chest’s lock.

“I haven’t heard much of either Dukaan or Zahkriisos, but the people seem to adore Vahlok, calling his the just and wise. As for Ahzidal, from what I heard his lust for knowledge and power is quite terrible, but the knowledge he has gained is quite powerful, and will help us defend their island from whatever threatens us. Apparently his enchantments and spells proved quite instrumental in the victory over the snow elves by Ysgramor’s five hundred.” Miraak started to explain, as Hrofdir moved the key left and right, in sharp twists, each a different length turn. “Whatever the case is, the meeting should go well, and hopefully we can set up a defensive force in case of Snow Elf or Dwemer attacks. After all, they have a three fortresses on this very island, Kagrumenz, Nchardak, and Fahlbtharz, if my pronunciation is correct.” Hrofdir merely chuckled slightly at Miraak’s ramblings, which the priest did not notice. “Have you seen their metal animunculi? I have witnessed one of their “Spheres” make short work of a trained man; I would so like to study one. But then there is their centurions, of which I have only heard tales. “Twice the size of a man” apparently, if those tales are to be believed. Maybe we could attempt to trade with dwemer, establish some form of alliance. What do you think?” Miraak asked, turning away from the coals, watching as Hrofdir opened the chest. 

“I’d just like to see how to make that metal of theirs. Saw a suit of that take a heavy hit from a damn fine blade, and barely a scratch on it. The dwemer merely shrugged it off and severed the poor sod’s head from his body,” Hrofdir mused, reaching into the chest.

“Much could be gained from an alliance, or at least on this side. “But: “what could we offer the dwemer?” is a question we much consider.”

“A hard question to say in the least.” Hrofdir nodded. “Now Miraak, I never properly thanked you for the position you have given me here, so I think this is long overdue.”

“Hrofdir, there is no need for thanks: you worked hard for this position, and it my honour to have the best smith in the land forging the weapons of this island, and at my side,” Miraak opposed, shaking his head, as Hrofdir began to undo the leather knots holding scraps of cloth and leather to the long object in his hands. 

“Even if what you said is true: I owe you for putting the recommendation forward to the other priests, and don’t say you didn’t, Dukaan let it slip.” Hrofdir countered, throwing of the scraps covering the object. “There,” he announced, throwing of the last scrap.

In the smith’s hands, lay the most exquisitely crafted blade Miraak had ever seen. Forged from faultless black steel, it shone with an unnatural gleam. Intricate carvings danced their way up the blade, and the hilt was carved to look life an open dragon mouth, the blade protruding forth. Two black gems made the dragons eyes, each having an eerie red glow. Miraak reached out to grasp the deathly cold steel. He felt the power course through him at the touch.

“Careful, Miraak: Ahzidal mentioned adjustment would be required to safely wield the blade.” Hrofdir warned, looking to see his friend’s reaction. 

Miraak stared at the beautiful blade before him. “This blade… I cannot accept this, no man is worthy of such a powerful blade.”

“Ah now, Miraak. Of all the men in this new land, you are the most worthy I have heard of. You have what is needed to wield this blade. The will, the need to make the world a better place for all, the determination to do it. This blade was made and gifted to help you do this. Ahzidal said that the more powerful the enchantment, deduct the skill of the enchanter, the bigger a con must be given. The blade will only strike true if it done in the name of good, and will only stay strong in the hands of those that wish to bring goodness to the world.”

Miraak looked away from the blade at last. “So you have spoken to Ahzidal?” He asked.

“Yes. He is rather eccentric, and I could see he was hiding much hate, anger and sadness within himself, but he was more than happy to take part in the creation of this blade, as long as a crafted some armour for him to work on” Hrofdir answered. 

“What is its name, as a blade this powerful must have one?”

“I think… I think its name will come in time, as it furthers its goals.”

“I thank you Hrofdir, this means a lot.” Miraak told him.

Hrofdir closed the chest, then removed his blacksmiths apron. “No need for thanks, remember?” He jabbed, sliding a cuirass over his tunic.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Miraak questioned, amused.

“We, are going adventuring, like the old days.” Hrofdir answered simply, putting on gauntlets and boots.

“But, I have to check that the temple is running smoothly: the workrooms, the fortifications, the kitchens…” Miraak began.

“You are really worried about the Kitchens?” Hrofdir laughed, taking an axe from the wall. “Worried our sweetrolls are suddenly going to go missing?”

Miraak couldn’t contain the laughter. Hrofdir merely stood there, trying to look serious, but failing miserably. 

“Very well, you win. Where is our newly revived adventuring career going to take us first?” Miraak chuckled.

“Our first bounty: take down a nefarious gang of sweet roll bandits!” Hrofdir exclaimed, raising his axe into the air.

“Aye! Never again shall man fear the safety of his sweetrolls!” Miraak responded, raising the dark blade up to join the axe, before they both fell to the ground in laughter.


End file.
